


Expectations

by KrisseyCrystal (IceCreAMS)



Category: A Saga of Light and Dark - T.J. Chamberlain
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Secret Relationship, Unplanned Pregnancy, oh god uh, or at least the potential of it, the threat of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:16:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceCreAMS/pseuds/KrisseyCrystal
Summary: The day Adrienne discovers she is pregnant is the same day she is supposed to return home, but the problem with that is that Adrienne is absolutely certain where she is leaving is far safer for her to stay than where she is expected to return.[A Modern-Day AU.]
Relationships: Adrienne Cherri Smith/Ely Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silver_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/gifts).



The day Adrienne discovers she is pregnant is the same day she is supposed to return home, but the problem with that is that Adrienne is absolutely certain where she is leaving is far safer for her to stay than where she is expected to return.

The morning of the discovery is a lovely, unassuming day in early May.

The Smith’s kitchen cabinets are a cool, calm color, a cross somewhere between green and blue, with little white knobs at the corner of their doors. The backsplash tile is outdated and yellow, with small floral accents every two squares, sitting above the dark and speckled countertops that are pleasing to tap her fingernails against.

It is not the first day Adrienne has spent with the Smiths, who live so close to her university; she hopes it will not be the last. 

There is a certain, selfish kind of pleasure in the potential of getting used to kindness. 

But Adrienne’s stomach churns as she sits at the counter that particular, unfortunate morning just as it has all night and for the past several days. She would say she is “coming down with something,” but that doesn’t feel right, either. She’s not running a temperature. It doesn’t hurt to swallow. 

Moira’s hand, warm and weathered, drops from Adrienne’s brow to curl around her chin.

“Maybe some dry toast will do you good,” she says.

Adrienne tries not to laugh. Or roll her eyes. She does only somewhat good at managing neither. “I’m sorry; I’m not very hungry right now.”

“Of course. You do not have to.” Moira’s voice is quiet and careful and soothing. She is kind in everything she does. “But it is just a suggestion. It may help settle your stomach, you know.”

Adrienne sighs. Her eyes flutter shut. “I think putting anything in my stomach right now might upset it again, actually.”

Moira’s hand falls away. Her mouth is pinched in a small frown and when Adrienne finally looks back at her, she finds both dark eyes appraising her own. 

Adrienne’s stomach flips. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“It does not mean you shouldn’t get checked out.”

It is still so bizarre to have the freedom of saying _no._ “I’m sure you’re right, but…” Adrienne looks out the window where the lacy curtains are pulled to the sides and pinned back around two hooks. In the front yard, Adrienne can see the dogs running around Ely. He’s got the newspaper and the letters he’s fetched held high over his head as he shouts down at them, kicking out his legs to ward them away. “It’s my last day here before the break starts. Honestly, I’d rather not spend it at some doctor’s that I’ll never see again.”

A curious look passes Moira’s face. She glances over Adrienne’s face for a second time, before shifting her weight. “I mean this in the best way possible, Adrienne, but maybe you should consider, if not going to see a doctor, then getting a test done. Just to be certain.”

Adrienne snaps her head around. Her eyes blow wide. “What do you mean.”

Somewhere in the middle of her words, she really means: _What kind of test are we talking about?_

Moira is quick to shake her head. She opens her mouth, but the whine of the front door cuts her off. There’s a final, “Get! Get!” before it swings shut again. Then, Ely’s steps are heavy and quick over the wooden floorboards. He stomps in and drops the mail on the peninsula counter. He leans over to kiss the side of Adrienne’s head.

Immediately, like a light switch being flicked on, Adrienne thinks she knows what Moira was trying to say.

And by the modest _We can talk about this later_ smile on Moira’s face, it seems she knows that Adrienne knows, too. 

Great. 

“Adrienne?” Ely rumbles next to her. Both sides of the zipper of his windbreaker are in his hands, the jacket halfway down his arms as he stares at the side of her face. “You okay?”

Adrienne flicks her eyes to his. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, instead of _I think I’m caught somewhere between irrational fear that your mother secretly hates me and is going to hate me if her suspicion is correct, and the opposite and very rational fear that if she’s right and that’s what is wrong with me, your mother isn’t the one I should be afraid of._

* * *

Moira wins out on feeding Adrienne that afternoon. 

Not because Adrienne somehow magically becomes hungry, but because Moira makes the argument that this is the last chance she has to feed her before she must return home for break and _honestly, Adrienne, If you can’t bring yourself to eat a full meal, at least try to eat some toast and jam._

After lunch, Adrienne packs her bags with all the dread and lethargy and dragging of feet that comes from wanting to go anywhere other than where she must. Ely watches her and offers to help, but Adrienne waves him off. There’s a certain benefit to the routine of keeping her hands busy while her mind wanders.

Once she is ready and Adrienne has said her good-bye’s and thank you’s, she gets in Ely’s car.

* * *

They are a few minutes on the road before Adrienne asks if Ely will stop at the Rite-Aid on the right. Ely says sure without question—other than asking if Adrienne is okay—and Adrienne nods as she climbs out of the passenger seat. She tells him to stay in the car; he leaves it idling. In three quick strides, she’s through the sliding doors and pulling the hood of her jacket over her head.

She tells herself: _This is silly; why am I nervous? No one here will know me,_ while the other half of her screams: _Somehow, she’ll know, and that’s all that matters._

It’s a bit of an unnecessarily mortifying ordeal, Adrienne thinks, buying the dumb pee stick. 

Oh god. She’s so bad at this. How has she never done anything like this before? Even the drug-testing strips somewhere at the bottom of her bag aren’t purchased; she got them free from a date-safety-awareness campaign some group on campus had been running.

The woman behind her in line for the register has a baby on her hip (because of course she does). She’s in a jean skirt, and her blonde hair is up in a messy bun, and something about that combination has Adrienne nervously tucking her shoulder forward to hide the pregnancy test in the cashier’s hands.

When said cashier awkwardly meets eyes with her, Adrienne stares back. Her mouth presses into a thin line.

The silence stretches on for too long.

She tells herself, _This stranger probably doesn’t even care. They’ve had to scan condoms and cigarettes and lube before—probably?—as well as other strange things. A pregnancy test isn’t going to be the weirdest thing they’ve touched. They aren’t judging me._

_Are they?_

Adrienne slips her ringless hand up the sleeve of her jacket as the cashier drones the amount. She almost reaches for her card before she thinks better of it and grabs cash instead. 

“Do you want a bag?”

“Y…yes?” Adrienne doesn’t know why that’s a question. Isn’t the answer obvious? Do people walk out of Rite-Aids normally without one and let the entire world judge them for what they’ve got in their hand?

Her palms are sweaty when she takes the proffered plastic. She ducks her head and scurries beyond the automatic doors. 

Once she is back in the car, she stuffs the plastic back behind her ankles on the floor as fast as she can. Ely looks up from his phone. In the split-second before he pockets it, Adrienne can see the familiar blue and grey of his text message screen. _Mom,_ surrounded by hearts, is at the top. 

Oh god. 

“Got everything you were looking for?” he asks and draws her attention up to his eyes. He puts the car in reverse.

It takes Adrienne a second to realize that frantic panting she can hear is the rapid inhale-exhale of her own lungs, pathetically working in overdrive like she’s run a marathon. She jerks around to look out the window and swallows. “Yeah, actually. I did.” And she is infinitely grateful he doesn’t press her for what she bought. 

It’s not that she’s afraid of telling him—(she is)—it’s that she doesn’t know how to deal with the great, big _What if…_ and there’s no point in making him as scared as she is when she doesn’t even know if it’s true. If she’s pregnant. 

Please let her be overthinking this.

They drive in silence for another ten minutes before Ely strikes up idle conversation about what’s been on his mind lately—potentially changing his field of study; they discussed it before—and listening to him go on and on about something she knows is important to him calms the frightened rabbit-footed patter of her heart.

She wonders if he knows that she’s afraid.

She wonders if this is his way of saying, _It’s okay that you don’t want to talk about it yet. I’m here for when you do._

When she gives him advice and insight, she hopes he understands that she means _Thank you._

* * *

That night, there are two lines on the screen of the stick staring back up at her.

Two.

Both the instructions that came with the box and her five different Google tabs on her phone’s browser say that means a positive result. Yet every time Adrienne’s eyes run across the screen something in her freezes up. 

Is she happy? 

Is she terrified? 

Is she everything and nothing all at once? 

There’s a black hole of horror in her gut, and somewhere in the center of the gluttonous vacuum, she thinks there actually might be something like hope.

_A baby. I’m going to have a baby._

Adrienne sinks onto the closed toilet seat when it feels like her legs are going to give out. She stares at the opposite wall and the chrome-framed orchid print hanging off the soft grey and she thinks, _I don’t know anything about this. Oh my god. I’m going to have a baby and I don’t know anything about raising a kid. I don’t know anything about childhood development. I don’t know anything about how to change diapers, let alone how to—_

Her eyes drift down slowly to her phone still in hand. The search bar still gleams up at her.

_But I could learn._

Slowly, Adrienne backspaces and backspaces. When the bar is clear, she begins to type anew.

* * *

“Adrienne, are you feeling alright?” 

“What?” Adrienne’s head jerks up from her plate. She pinches her fork. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine, Mother.”

Katina’s eyes have always been sharp. If there was a feature about her mother that Adrienne can’t bring herself to say she hates but perhaps she is the most wary of, it’s that: sometimes, it seems as if they could cut her open.

Other than a quick glance at both of their faces, Galen does not lift his head.

Katina looks to her plate and frowns, spinning angel hair around her fork. “Oh. Just wondering.” The light-hearted, airiness of her tone is betrayed by the weight of her words around Adrienne’s neck. “It’s just that I hardly got the chance to say hello as soon as you arrived home. You were very quick to hole yourself up in your bathroom for such a long time. You cannot blame me for assuming you might have been ill.”

Adrienne pauses.

“I…” Her mouth works open and shut once. Then, after a terrible moment of indecision: “Yes. I’m sorry. You’re right; I’m not feeling well.” 

Katina’s eyes flash as they snap up to Adrienne’s face. The hardness, the dagger-like quality of it is gone in a second, melted away like mercury. “Eat what you can, then head to bed. Lest we catch whatever you’ve caught while you were off at university.”

“Thank you.”

Adrienne does not have her fork back in her mouth before her mother adds: “It’s just—” 

And then Adrienne tenses, bracing herself before the words have been spoken. 

“I had prepared one of your favorite dishes tonight for your first day back home. I suppose it was silly of me to think you might have been excited for it.”

And there it is: the twist of steel in her gut. 

Adrienne tries not to let her expression squeeze up tight. She can feel the wince, she can feel the guilty burn in her chest. She sets her fork against the porcelain rim. “I’m sorry.”

Katina hums.

Both her and Galen’s silverware clink in the long, uncomfortable silence that follows. 

Adrienne does not leave the table early. 

* * *

Home is a place with dark cabinets set against tall walls and a double-door fridge with a lower-drawer freezer. Home is a place where the pots and pans are part of the decor because they hang against the wall more than Adrienne has ever seen them be used and she is quick to tell herself there is nothing wrong with this; there is nothing _wrong_ with the way her parents live and the way she has grown up, but it is different, so very different, than the Smiths.

It is so cold, sometimes.

* * *

After dinner, Adrienne helps clean up and when they are done, Katina takes her face in her icy hands and feels her brow. She tilts her head right and left and presses her knuckles against Adrienne’s forehead. It is very different than Moira’s touch. 

She tells Adrienne she cannot feel a temperature. Is it perhaps something in her throat? Adrienne says that must be it and that she’ll take some medicine before bed.

(She does not.)

* * *

They dance around each other for a few days. Adrienne begins to think perhaps she’ll be able to get through the week-long break and then, once back on campus, she can brainstorm what to do about the obvious _being-pregnant_ thing. 

But then Katina asks, “How is that throat of yours, Adrienne?” 

And Adrienne forgot that she was supposed to be sick at all. 

She pauses, cabinet door half-open as she stares into space, rewinding her mind to try and recall when and where she mentioned it was her _throat_ that was the issue. When did she say that? What a piss-poor time for her faulty memory and her gut to swim and kick at her. She would think Katina was just misremembering things; but Katina doesn’t. Not unless it’s on purpose. Everything her mother does has a point. She used to trust that quality of her mother’s; trust it more than she recalls her own memories. Sometimes, she still does.

Slowly, Adrienne sets the glass upside down on the cabinet shelf. She reaches for the next one from the dishwasher. “It’s feeling much better.”

 _I don’t_ sound _like I have a sore throat, do I?_

It’s when Adrienne is reaching to set the next glass down that suddenly, her chin is in her mother’s hand for the second time that week. Suddenly, she’s facing her mother and her neck rings with all the sharp bolt of being forcefully twisted.

She blinks at Katina’s sharp eyes and tries not to breathe too heavily. She tries not to be too alarmed.

(It’s instinct, maybe, that shuts her body down like a doll so she can’t resist.)

Katina stares into her eyes. She looks all over Adrienne’s face.

Then, gently, she pats Adrienne’s cheek. “You’re sounding awfully hoarse today. It’s a good thing we have some orange juice in the fridge. Perhaps you should drink some.”

“I…” Adrienne doesn’t know what else to say, other than: “Yes, Mother.”

She waits until the clip of Katina’s heels fade away and then grasps the edge of the kitchen sink, breathing hard. 

Why does she feel as if she missed something important? 

* * *

Dinner the next day is stilted. Awkward. Even when it’s just the two of them because Galen already left on one of his business trips.

Usually, Adrienne knows how to be everything and anything pleasant for her mother. She doesn’t know why this evening it’s like she’s continually messing up every little thing that normally satisfies Katina. The way she picks up her fork is _wrong._ The way she chews the pork is _wrong._ The way she wipes her mouth is _wrong._

How and why is it _wrong?_ (How can she make it right?) 

It’s Friday. This is ridiculous. There’s only one more day until she returns to campus. She can last one more day. 

Why does it feel like this day will go on forever and ever?

“Are you still not feeling well, Adrienne?” Katina’s voice is still somehow as light and airy as that first evening’s dinner. She makes a graceful show of folding her cloth napkin over her lap. “I told you to drink some orange juice, did I not? That you should take some medicine or Vitamin C?” 

“Yes, Mother.”

“This won’t do if you aren’t taking care of yourself. Allow me to pour you a glass.”

“A-all right, Mother.”

Adrienne stares at Katina’s back as she walks away, baffled. _Why?_ she wants to ask. _Why are you so determined about this?_

_Why is this so strange to me?_

The filled glass is set before her. Adrienne gives her mother a subdued thank you as Katina’s phone rings. Katina makes a soft sound and walks into the kitchen once more. 

Then Adrienne is alone. 

Adrienne stares at the glass for an inordinate, strange, completely unnecessary amount of time.

She can’t explain why she stands up. 

Her purse is just in the front hall; not that far from the dining room. She doesn’t know what possesses her to grab one of the free testing strips scattered across the bottom, the ones she received from that social activist group on campus that now feels like ages ago.

 _This is stupid,_ she tells herself. _This is stupid; this is stupid; this is stupid. She’s my mother. She’s my mother and she can be hurtful, but she would never—this is stupid._

Until it isn’t.

* * *

Adrienne stares.

She stares without seeing for a solid, full minute—staring and staring and staring. She’s not quite sure what it is she’s supposed to feel, or what it is she’s supposed to register when she sees the dark blue end of the testing strip sitting beside her glass. Is she supposed to feel horror? She probably should. A normal person would feel disgust; someone with their senses intact would feel awful.

Somehow, as it is, Adrienne cannot bring herself to feel surprised.

There is resignation there, she thinks, right at the base of her throat. Something heavy that dangles over her ribcage. Somehow, she knew this would happen, that her mother would do this. 

She hears her mother moving around in the kitchen beyond the dining room. The bang of one of those familiar, dark cupboard doors swinging shut—that’s what prompts her to move. 

Adrienne jerks upright. She grabs the colored testing paper and shoves it in her pocket. 

Oh god. 

Her mother will be expecting something to happen, right? She’s expecting some sort of reaction here; that’s _why_ she drugged her daughter’s drink. If Adrienne wants to survive—no, if she wants her _baby_ to survive, because Katina wouldn’t kill her (probably, though that’s growing doubtful by the second), but if given the opportunity, Katina would definitely arrange for an abortion with or without her daughter’s consent—then she needs to think. And act. And fast. All within the span of seconds. 

Oh god.

Adrienne takes a breath. She pushes herself to a stand. 

Moving carefully and quickly, she takes her cup to the plant in the corner and pours the drink into the soil. She watches as the dirt soaks the juice up like a sponge. A quick glance behind her, over her shoulder, shows her that her mother is still busy, banging around in her own kitchen. She’s talking to whoever’s on the other line about something; her voice is floating in on a constant, high-pitched frequency of toneless noise.

She needs to get out of here.

Carefully, Adrienne returns the glass to the placemat. She grabs her phone.

Her phone. Ely. Maybe she can—

“Oh, Adrienne, darling, does the orange juice help your throat?” 

Oh god. 

Adrienne opens her mouth to answer. Should she answer? If she says something, that’ll probably reveal how the drug hasn’t kicked in yet. And why wouldn’t the drug kick in yet if Adrienne hasn’t taken it—

“Adrienne?”

She doesn’t answer.

Quick as she can, she spins around. She should grab her purse by the front door maybe, maybe; if she had more time, she might run to go fetch her bags from upstairs, but she can’t. She doesn’t have the time. All she can think is, _I need to get out. Right now. I need to go—_

Is the front door too obvious? Too cliche?

It’s all she has right now. 

When Adrienne is on the front step, easing the door behind her shut as slowly as she can so it doesn’t whine, she fishes out her phone. Her thumb jams over the call button below Ely’s name.

* * *

They peel out of a driveway further down the neighborhood with a mad screech of wheels and for a second, Adrienne wonders if she’s imagining that ugly, plastic smell of burnt rubber. She grasps onto the handle above the passenger side door and clutches at the center console between herself and Ely before she realizes she doesn’t have her seatbelt on and oh god, she can’t _not_ wear a seatbelt when she’s _pregnant—_

Adrenaline shakes her hands. 

Ely is hunched over the wheel, eyes darting madly around and over his shoulder like someone will have heard them and decide to follow. “Are you okay? Adrienne?”

That’s when Adrienne realizes they must have been driving for longer than she’s aware of because the next time she blinks, the clock is seven minutes forward and she doesn’t have any memory of those seven minutes. Her gut twists. She lets go of the console to grab at Ely’s sleeve. “Pull over.”

“W-what?”

“Pull over! Please, I need to—”

The car jerks right. There’s a crunch of soil underneath the tire, textured and gravelly, and it increases the nausea for a reason Adrienne can’t explain. She stumbles out of the car and towards the tree line. She gets two steps before she bends over and vomits.

The driver side door slams shut. “Adrienne! What are you—shit!”

Adrienne gasps and wipes her mouth on the side of her jacket sleeve. She doesn’t realize until she tries to turn around to see Ely that the reason she can’t is because she’s crying. Big, hard, rough tears squeeze her tight from her gut on up and drip down her cheeks. “Oh god. This can’t be real. This doesn’t feel real—”

“—Adrienne—”

“—oh god, what am I going to do now? What am I going to do _tomorrow?”_ Adrienne’s hands shake and she groans. She feels sick all over again. “What am I going to do? How am I going to talk to her again? She’s going to realize I left. She’s going to realize that it didn’t work. That I knew what she was doing and then _left._ I just—she’s—”

“—I—” Ely’s mouth works open and shut and open and shut. 

Adrienne’s throat squeezes up tight. “Ely, what should I have _done?_ Should I have—should I have just let her drug me?” 

_“What?!”_

Ely’s voice booms like thunder under the clear, starry night. 

Adrienne flinches and she clutches at her collar until Ely’s hands wrap around her elbows. 

“No, no, I’m sorry,” he says and shakes his head. “I didn’t—I—sorry, uh. No. In case you couldn’t tell, _no,_ you _definitely_ shouldn’t have let her drug you. Hell, what do you even mean that she was going to drug you?!”

All at once, Adrienne turns to jelly, nearly sagging to the ground. She would have sunk to her knees in her own vomit, too, but Ely pulls her up by her elbows and gently eases her away. He says something to her—something soft and quiet and gentle—and she doesn’t know what the words are but she loves him for it. 

And it’s strange, maybe, the juxtaposition of her panic and how horrible her life has spun, compared to how deeply she can realize she loves someone—but maybe it’s because she needs this one, good thing—she _needs_ this—she needs _him_ —that she can feel that love so much more than normal.

Oh god.

She really does need Ely.

“Why was she even going to drug you? That doesn’t make any sense—”

“—I’m pregnant.”

Ely blinks. He stutters. He stops. He opens his mouth to try again. He stops once more. 

It would be funny, maybe, if Adrienne’s knees weren’t still knocking against one another. The words tumble out of her without any control at all: “It’s because I’m pregnant. She found out. I don’t know how, but I knew she would and she did. She kept making this big deal about how sore my throat was, even though I _know_ it’s not, and she kept insisting how I drink this _stupid_ orange juice! Of all things! And so I started to get that funny feeling that maybe it wasn’t about the orange juice, so I tested it. And sure enough, it was blue. And oh god, it was—” For some reason, the absurdity of the whole situation colors Adrienne’s face and makes shame and horror hot and red on her face and down her throat. “My own mother was trying to—oh god, what would she have done? Once I was out? Would she have—the baby—” 

It’s suddenly very hard to look at Ely. 

She covers her face with a hand. “Oh god. This is ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s ridiculous. This is crazy. My mother using _date-rape drugs_ in order to do something to my baby. I’ve got to be making it up—”

“—ridiculous,” Ely echoes, but his voice sounds more hollow than hers. His hands squeeze around her elbows. “Y-yeah,” he finally says with a quiet, shaking chuckle. “Yeah. I mean, ‘ridiculous’ could be one word for it. But that doesn’t mean you’re making it up.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Uh, I mean this in the best way possible, but all of this is far too out there to believe it might be made-up.”

Adrienne’s laugh turns into a tortured groan. She doesn’t lift her head from her fingers and after a few seconds, her groan turns into a sob. “Is this how you feel everytime I talk about my mother?”

“…god, uh. Listen. I love you, and you know this, Adrienne—I love you so much—but I gotta confess—I have no idea what the hell you’re feeling right now.” Ely sucks in a quiet breath. “I mean, I’m still trying to, uh, not freak out about the whole ‘being pregnant’ thing, if I’m honest. So you might have to give me a few, uh, minutes to mentally catch up.”

Oh.

That’s right. 

She hadn’t told him yet. 

Adrienne lifts her head from her hands. She looks up at Ely’s face; it’s so very hard to read. “Are you…are you okay with that?”

“What?”

“That I’m pregnant. Do you think I should get rid of it?”

“I—” Ely’s face floods red. He looks a cross between pained and thoughtful and it’s kind of funny and kind of sweet how open he’s being. After a long moment, he clears his throat and looks away. He shrugs. “Uh, god. Of course you ask me right out of the gate.” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and bites his lip. “Honestly, Adrienne? I…kind of feel weird being asked when _you_ haven’t even told me how you feel about it.” 

And how should Adrienne feel about it?

Adrienne drops a hand to her stomach.

“Listen…” Ely curls a finger under her chin and lifts her face. His face tightens for a second again—miniscule and slight—still internally warring over something, before deciding on: “I know I’m probably not helping, but you should be able to decide if you want to keep the baby or not. And whatever you do decide, whatever you want, I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

“My mother isn’t.”

“I know.” Ely winces again. “She kind of made that clear.”

Adrienne takes a breath and lets it go. “What do I do?”

“Right now?” Ely wraps his arms around Adrienne slowly. She doesn’t fight; she doesn’t do anything but let him pull her in and tuck her head into his neck. “We can’t try to solve everything at once. There’s…shit, no way we can, you know? This whole night—everything ahead of us—kind of a big mess. So let’s just take it one thing at a time.” 

Adrienne doesn’t like that. It’s not rocket science; it shouldn’t have to be. Why does she have to _wait_ to feel _safe?_

“I think the most pressing issue is your mom,” Ely murmurs. “Has she tried to call you?”

“Oh god.” Adrienne’s voice tightens. “M-my phone. She can trace that—”

“—okay, okay. So that’s on the list of things we need to deal with. Fine. But like I said, let’s put a thumbtack in that for now.” Ely pulls back and frames Adrienne’s face with both of his hands. He tilts her head up until she can look at him and not anywhere else. “In general, we need to think about tonight. About your mom. About what you want to do.” For a split-second, Ely shuts his eyes tight. His mouth twists like he has tasted something sour. “Do you…do you _want_ to go back…?”

“What?” Adrienne’s eyes widen. “No! What—do—” Oh god. Her voice becomes very small. “Do you think I should?”

“No! No. _God,_ no.” Ely crushes her to his chest again, tight and bracing. “I just…I was scared you would. You know? No matter what she’s done to you, you’ve always gone back to her before. I just…” He chuckles and Adrienne can feel it travel through him. It’s calming, somehow, under her ear. “Go figure that it takes the potential harm to something or someone else for you to finally get the hell out of dodge.”

Oh.

Adrienne blinks. She takes a deep, deep, and shaky breath. She wraps her arms around Ely and turns her face into him. 

“I don’t want to go back. Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll…can we figure out tomorrow, tomorrow?” 

“Yeah.” _One step at a time._ “Yeah, we can,” Ely says and presses a kiss to the top of her hair.

Funny, somehow, that the day Adrienne leaves home is the day she returns to somewhere she isn’t expected.

**Author's Note:**

> TAYLO ONCE AGAIN MADE THE MISTAKE OF REQUESTING ME TO WRITE THEIR INCREDIBLE OC'S... smh... I can't believe this...enabling me to write fanfic of their own characters. Incredible. Dangerous. A horrible decision because now I have given no one closure and become self-indulgent, writing a modern-day AU of, "But what if things were ~different~ and more ~dramatic~?" 
> 
> Did you know these guys are in a BOOK SERIES by the way? IT'S SUPER GOOD. The first book's already out, so check out [this carrd](https://asld.carrd.co/) for more information!
> 
> And if you'd like to request your own fic, check out my [carrd](https://krisseycrystal.carrd.co/) for more info (as well as where else to find me)!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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